


Desperation

by kyuuketsukirui



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Rice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-10
Updated: 2003-03-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:04:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyuuketsukirui/pseuds/kyuuketsukirui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm still in that half-sleep that I love; not the dark, dream-filled death-sleep, but a lazy, self-perpetuating drowse that always feels so much like being mortal that it seems I can almost feel the sun's warmth on my skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

Right now it's somewhere around seven. The sun has been down for a while but we're still in bed. I'm still in that half-sleep that I love; not the dark, dream-filled death-sleep, but a lazy, self-perpetuating drowse that always feels so much like being mortal that it seems I can almost feel the sun's warmth on my skin.

Now his fingers trailing across my belly...that's most definitely not my imagination. He alternates between the razor-sharp ends of his nails and the soft pads of his fingertips. Lines and swirls, sometimes cutting, drawing blood, smoothing it away. Making patterns. Like an ancient Celt, covered in war paint and tattoos.

For now, he's content just to lie here, his frantic energy drained away, leaving him mellow and lethargic. It won't last long. I can already feel a slight tenseness invading his movements and it begins to infect me as well. So I stretch and roll onto my other side so I'm facing him. Enough with sleep.

I look down at myself and admire his handiwork. The skin all healed and just the dark red of drying blood remains. His fingers resting lightly on my chest are crimson. Such beautiful fingers. Long and thin, bony, but in an entirely pleasing manner.

His eyes when he looks at me are a dark violet blue, the color of lust. His hair is wild, matted and snarled, and dried blood sticks to his skin in flakes. The bruises are healed, as are the scrapes and gashes, but he winces as he shifts slightly. That soreness still remains.

Last night we went out. Not anywhere in particular, just walking through the city. He stopped once, distracted by the loud music of a club, and we went in and danced for a while. I loved watching him from the sidelines as much as I loved being out there with him. Everyone else was watching him as well. They couldn't help it. They couldn't _not_ watch, and neither could I.

We didn't stay long, though, just long enough to satisfy his whim. I was eager to get home, eager to have him. I told him as much when he attempted to drag me into yet another shop and his eyes turned that same dark color with which I'm so familiar. We were home within a few minutes.

I was kissing him the moment the door closed behind us, wondering how I could still be this desperately in love with him after all these years. This had been building all evening, this madness. I had felt it in the club, a tightness in my chest when I looked at him. If it went on too long, it would become a physical pain and that would in turn become a cold, dead numbness. But he was here, with me, and so it never reached that stage. Not anymore.

Our lips were bruised and bleeding and our clothing in shreds by the time we reached the bedroom. Greedy and unable to wait, the kissing had turned into drinking, stumbling up the stairs in a hazy swoon. Already some of the definition was lost, the edges blurred, enough blood passed between us to establish a tenuous link. When I looked at him, lying on the bed, it was overlaid with the faint image of me, standing over him. Like a bad television signal.

I sliced through my palm, coating my cock with blood, and then I was pushing into him. His chest hitched and his face screwed up, his mouth stretching wide into an inhuman howl. White fangs against blood-red lips and tongue.

I dug into his hips, holding him still, leaving finger-shaped bruises that would fade by evening. Leaning down to kiss him, I bit hard into his lip, feeling one fang puncture it completely. He wrenched my head to the side and gashed my neck, drinking deeply. His strokes became faster and more erratic and then I felt his body tense and he was coming, and I could feel the shocks of it echoing through the blood that linked us.

My neck still twisted awkwardly, I took the wrist he offered, letting his hot blood spill down my throat. When I came, there was again that doubled image and I was him and he was me and everything blurred and spun into a thousand memories of nights like this. We were there together in each other's minds and it was a long time before I came back to myself.

Now his blood-stained fingers rest lightly on my chest and his eyes widen slightly and I know he's remembering, too.

Soon he will be unable to be still any longer. He will run his hand down my side, gripping my waist and pulling me closer. He will use his fingers and lips and fangs and nails and tongue to reduce me to a shuddering bundle of nerves, crying out for release. I will be impaled and fucked senseless and I will be the one wincing tomorrow night.


End file.
